"Yes, sir, Mr. Lux; it's a sad day."
"A sad, sad day," he repeated, stepping farther into the room, with his two attendants at a respectful distance behind him.
There were no rites. Tillie mumbled a few lines to herself out of a little Bible with several faded-ribbon bookmarks dangling from between the pages.
"This was poor Angie's book. I'll keep it for remembrance."
"Poor Angie!" said Mame.
"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" said Mr. Lux. "If you're all ready now we can start, Miss Prokes. Don't be scared, little missy."
There was a moment of lead-heavy silence; then the two attendants stepped forward, and Tillie buried her face and ears on Mame's sympathetic shoulder. And so Angie's little procession followed her.
"I'm all for going along, Mr. Lux; but Tillie's that bent on my going back to the store for the half-day. I—I hate to let her go out there alone and all."
"I'm going out in the carriage myself, missy. There ain't a thing a soul could do for the little girl. I'll see that she ain't wantin' for nothin'—a Lux funeral leaves no stone unturned."
"You—you been awful good to me, Mame! I'll be back at the store Monday."